


Some Fires Don’t Go Out

by Reddragon1995



Series: Some Fires [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV Show)
Genre: All The Tropes, Arya is cool, Bran is a stoner, But Dany does get dick when she can, Clueless parents, Cunnilingus, Daenerys is successful, Death of a Parent, Exes to Lovers, F/M, Fellatio, Happy Ending, Jon is Ned’s nephew, Jon is a mess, Jonerys, Modern AU, Not flattering to the Starks because I don’t like them, Past Cheating, Practical Jokes, Rehab, Robb is dead, Sansa is a spoiled twat, Smut, The Starks adopted Jon, Vaginal Sex, Wedding tropes, death of a sibling, drug and alcohol use and abuse, fake relationships, family vs. lover, girl from the wrong side of the tracks/privileged boy, lots of show Easter eggs, not a RPF with fictional identities though, rich white trash family, sexually frustrated career woman, sexually promiscuous fuckup, some real life parallels, wedding setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 08:27:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23848171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reddragon1995/pseuds/Reddragon1995
Summary: Ex lovers Jon and Daenerys run into each other at a wedding.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry (mentioned), Daenerys Targaryen/Jon Snow, Daenerys Targaryen/Renly Baratheon, Daenerys/Daario (past), Daenerys/Drogo (past), Jon Snow/Ygritte (past)
Series: Some Fires [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1936948
Comments: 82
Kudos: 635





	Some Fires Don’t Go Out

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little bit of crack but hopefully a lot of fun. It’s packed with Rom Com tropes, some tired and probably not very woke, but go with it. For fun, see how many GOT Easter eggs you can find. Draw your own conclusions about any real life parallels, I ain’t saying nothing.
> 
> Mood board by the wildly talented Elena. Thanks BB!
> 
> Minor edits made, because I never fail to miss something. Also some clarification notes at the end.

  
“Hello gorgeous.”

That familiar raspy brogue sends shivers down her spine, and not exactly the exciting kind.

Her heart sinks like a stone.

She’d seen him at the ceremony, naturally. He was an usher, looking fit and dapper and devilishly handsome in his designer tux, the jacket tailored to hang perfectly from his strong shoulders, the trousers cut to hug that ass you could serve tea on.

He’s changed his hair _._

She knows she’s blushing, gods dammit, but at least it’s dark on this waterfront terrace, save for the torches with their soft glow, and the fairy lights strung throughout the greenery.

“Jon,” she replies with as much indifference as she can muster.

He proffers a flute of champagne which she accepts, and downs his own in one swig. She takes a sip and crinkles her nose. For a family of such impressive means, the Starks have terrible taste in champagne. Or they’re just cheap. She knows that for a fact. She’s surprised Ned agreed to foot the bill for a destination wedding in Dorne. If he had his way, his younger daughter would have wed in front of that hideous old tree on the grounds of their family estate, the half-dead one with white bark and red leaves and a ghoulish face carved into the trunk. Then they would have served beer and finger sandwiches, or worse, those little pastel-colored mints that taste like chalk, and some concoction of sherbet and lime soda and fruit juice they’d try to pass off as punch.

“You seem surprised to see me.”

“At your sister’s wedding? I was sort of expecting it.”

“So you were hoping to.”

“I said I was expecting to. Not the same thing.” She swirls the flute, some of the liquid splashing onto her sleeve. To play it off, she takes another tiny sip. It really is rancid. She would throw it over the railing, glass and all, but Ned is probably keeping count of the stemware, ready to bill his guests for anything they break.

Jon leans against the stone balustrade, that shapely ass stuck out like a peacock’s plumage, and she rolls her eyes. Oh, but what an ass. She studied it quite extensively at one point in time. Most men could do a thousand squats every day, and never come close to the work of art that is Jon’s backside. Even now, she has to stop herself from grabbing a handful of it, or giving it a good swat.

“I didn’t know you and Arya were so close,” he prods.

“What do you mean?”

“I guess I’m a little surprised you were invited.”

Was that meant to be a swipe at her? She’s not sure. When she and Jon were….whatever they were, she liked his youngest sister well enough; in fact, Arya was the only one of his family Dany could tolerate. His father was a bore, his mother and other sister were cunts, and his little brothers were rowdy brats who were too young to warrant her notice at the time. She thinks she would’ve liked his older brother Robb, but he died in a car accident when he and Jon were teenagers. He was handsome, she knew that much, with wavy auburn hair and piercing blue eyes and a roguish smile. He was the type who was good at everything, and Jon always looked sad when he mentioned him, which wasn’t often. But she suspects Robb’s death is a significant reason that Jon is the way he is. She thought about that more than she should have after they broke up, when she conducted her post mortem analysis with all of her friends, until she finally listened to them and decided not to expend any more of her time and energy on him.

She clears her throat. It suddenly feels too warm out here, despite the steady breeze coming off the water. “Arya didn’t invite me. I’m a plus one.”

“Oh yeah?” He takes the champagne from her hand, swallows it whole, and drops both glasses over the railing. Maybe Ned won’t charge his own family. But it still draws a gasp from her as they fall and shatter on the rocks below.

“Yes.” Her spine stiffens, and she wraps her arms around her middle, suddenly self-conscious of her attire. There’s nothing outstanding about it; it’s just a nondescript, lacy LBD, but Jon’s always had a way of making her feel stripped bare. “I’m here with Renly. Do you know him? The groom’s uncle?”

Jon shrugs his shoulders, and Dany turns toward the glass doors of the ballroom, surveying the guests inside. She steps closer and spots her handsome date sitting at one of the round tables, chatting with an equally good looking young man with a mop of sandy-blonde curls. Jon sidles up to her and his eyes follow her finger as she points out Renly.

‘There.”

“Him?”

“What do you mean, _him?_ ” She throws a sidelong glance at Jon, who is grinning smugly. She knows he’s trying to needle her, and she knows she’s letting him, and she knows what the end result invariably has been, but she just can’t stop.

“I met him at the stag night. He’s a bit of a dandy, isn’t he?”

“Why, because he washes under his fingernails flosses between dental exams?” she parries, arching her brows. It’s on now; Jon could never resist their dueling.

“He’s poncey.”

“He happens to be brilliant,” Daenerys retorts. “He’s just made partner at the firm.”

Jon lowers his face to hers like he’s going to kiss her, and she swallows hard as her pulse quickens, but instead he leans closer to her ear, and takes the liberty of stroking her dangly earring between his thumb and forefinger.

“Better be careful, Dany, you wouldn’t want people thinking you’re trying to sleep your way to the top.”

He’s trying to piss her off. He does piss her off. But she’ll go with it. She turns her face to his, her lips not two inches away. “I’m the Director of Project Management now. I’m getting to the top because I’m good at what I do.” 

She wins this round, and he stands down. Even in the dim light she can see him brooding.

“You certainly are,” he agrees, as he pats around his jacket pocket and pulls out a vape pen, and takes a drag. The vapor smells like butterscotch. “I’m surprised Mormont’s letting you get away with fraternization, not with the way he always looked at you like he wanted to see what was under those cute little skirts you wore.”

“I prefer a good pants suit these days.”

He takes another drag from the pen and puffs out a long stream of fog. “How long have you been dating?”

“About a month,” she fibs. Calling it dating is a stretch, but Renly has piqued her interest. He’s perfect for her on paper, successful and serious but not boring, a man with clear-eyed direction and ambition, handsome, and a gentleman at that. She was pleasantly surprised when he approached her about two months ago and asked if she’d be interested in attending a family wedding with him. They’d been hanging out, and had an easy rapport, if not actual chemistry, and in her overly analytical mind, she thought it might mean the start of a new phase of their relationship, and quite frankly she’d been lonely and starting to think about her future and other things she wants in addition to her career, and five or ten years can pass by in a blink, if one isn’t paying attention. So, she agreed, and since then they’ve spent time getting better acquainted, amazed at how much they have in common. It’s almost too idyllic, yet it’s left her wanting. She hopes it will change, though. She really does like him.

“We’ve had drinks and dinner a few times. We both work too much for a social life.”

She swipes the pen from Jon’s lips and takes a puff herself, though the sticky sweet flavor makes her want to gag. She holds it down though, and hands the pen back to him, and he immediately inhales one last, long drag before putting it back in his pocket. 

“But not for sex, I’m guessing.” 

“Where’s what’s her name?” Daenerys deflects, because she’s not about to discuss her non existent sex life with Jon, which is pretty reliant on her “pet Rabbit” and occasional smutty internet fiction about her favorite tortured TV couple. That’s one thing she has to admit; she was never short on satisfaction with him, at least not the physical kind.

“What’s whose name?”

Daenerys rolls her eyes. “You know, the ginger with the big teeth.”

“You know her name, Dany.”

She shakes her head. “All I remember was her profile pic on your phone, and how aghast I was that you were cheating on me with Misty of Chincoteague.” 

“I wasn’t…..It wasn’t like that.”

They’ve had this discussion, or tried to, before. But she knew Jon was full of shit and listening to his excuses was a waste of her time.

“Is she here?”

His eyes shift nervously. “We split up. About six months ago.”

“Who’d she catch you fucking?” Daenerys jibes, picking his wounds. By the look in his eye when he cocks his head at her, she knows she isn’t too far off the mark.

“What makes you think it was my fault?” 

“Experience.” 

His lip twitches, just slightly, and it affects her in a way it should not. Inside she cringes. She may have enjoyed sparring with Jon back in the day, but she’s wading into deeper water than she wants, and she also can’t help but feel a bit sorry for him, and guilty for taking the piss out of him by insulting another woman.

“Maybe I’ve turned over a new leaf,” he drawls as he closes the space between them, his gaze shifting from playful to quite serious, those beautiful brown eyes framed by those impossibly thick lashes boring through her, and she can feel the warmth of his body, and the heat pooling in hers, and she has to stop this before it gets out of hand.

“Hope springs eternal,” she says with a tug on his lapels. “I’d better get back in.” She turns to leave, her hips swaying with each step, just to give him something to enjoy, but when she reaches the door, she turns. “It was good to see you, Jon.”

  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her ass in that dress.

And her legs, and how those expensive black pumps with the red soles make her calves flex when she walks.

She looks like she’s been working out, as she’s trimmer and more toned now than she was when they were younger.

And the fucking ankle bracelet, and her hair, cut in a long bob with waves that look like she woke up that way, but probably took hours to perfect….

It’s a gift from the gods. And his groin tightens in his trousers as she sashays away and disappears into the ballroom. He takes his vape pen from his pocket again for another drag to calm himself as he leans against the window. He tries not to, but when he turns his head, his eyes scan the ballroom of their own volition, and from his vantage point on the outside looking in, he finds her easily.

He found her in the sept, too.

Because he was looking for her.

Arya had told him weeks ago that Daenerys’ name was on an RSVP, and she wanted to warn him to prepare himself. And he did, as best he could. Got a haircut, groomed his beard, shined his shoes, waxed his car, like she was his prom date. But she wasn’t. She hadn’t been for several years.

He met Daenerys their first term of university, in their Intro to Art History course, and was immediately attracted. He’d never seen anyone like her, with her long platinum hair and aquamarine eyes flecked with hues of lilac and gold. What he liked most at first was her height, or lack of it, because he was always self-conscious about his, and he towered over her. It made him feel protective.

And he loved her laugh.

Her sense of humor was wicked and infectious. She had a bit of a filthy mind, and mouth. And they circled each other for years, toeing the line of romance until one would say or do something stupid, and they’d retreat to their corners and lick their wounds and apologize and make up, and have phenomenal sex, and start the wheel spinning again. 

Then came the summer before their final year, they were each applying to graduate programs for architecture, praying they’d be accepted at the Citadel. An internship would look impressive on their resumes, and they both happened to be selected for a summer program at Mormont and Associates. But where Daenerys flourished, he floundered. He didn’t take it seriously. Perhaps he felt he didn't really deserve to be there. Robb was always the talented one, the smart one, the athletic one…

….The one who should have lived, because he would’ve made something of himself. Even though his father never said as much, Jon knew it’s what he felt, deep down. He was Ned’s burden, adopted as a toddler after his mother, Ned’s younger sister, died. Jon doesn’t even remember her, really, except what he’s seen in pictures. 

He was only a few months younger than Robb, but a year behind him in school, and he idolized his brother, and where you found one, the other was usually close by. And then, at seventeen, suddenly Robb was gone, a hit and run on the Kingsroad when he was on the way home from a date, and the fault lines below the surface of the Stark family finally broke open, the shifting of the very earth under their feet bringing their house of glass crashing down on their heads, and Jon bore the brunt, in his mind.

But when he met Daenerys, it was like a balm to his soul. He wasn’t easy to love. He was immature and angry and wont to fuck things up for himself when it seemed like everything was falling into place. And she had her own issues, a temper like a dragon and a perpetual need to control things, which could alienate people sometimes. They could give each other hell, could be hurtful, but beneath it all was something beautiful, and as the years passed in school, they settled in, and he was happier than he could ever remember being. 

The summer together during the internship was supposed to be a springboard for their future. They found a flat to rent; a rickety place in the Flea Bottom slum of King’s Landing, but it was theirs, and for the first few weeks, playing house was diverting. Coming home from work, ordering Pentoshi takeaway or cooking together, lounging on the couch binging their favorite sitcoms or obscure, straight-to-VOD movies; trying to sleep through all the sirens and shouting and traffic; laughing and fucking and putting that first toe over the line of adulthood.

Then they had their 30-day evaluations, and while Dany’s review was glowing, Jon’s was….less than. He thought it was because the boss wanted to get in her panties, and perceived that Jon was a rival for that (as if), but he also had to admit that Daenerys was just more talented and ambitious than he. And it galled him, and he started picking stupid fights, spent most of his time at work playing solitare or surfing the internet, and within two weeks, he’d dropped out of the program and spent the rest of the summer loafing around the flat, eating Pop Tarts, wearing the same dingy grey sweats day after day, and playing his X-box.

And reconnecting with someone from his past.

Ygritte had been a school crush of his, a girl from the wrong side of the tracks with the wrong social circle that drove his parents to drink whenever they thought about it. She had one side of her head shaved, and her hair was candy-apple red, and she had a septum ring and a tattoo of a weird spiral pattern on her shoulder, a foul mouth and a devil-may-care attitude, and he had fun with her, ditching class, partying, creating mayhem. And he genuinely did like her at the time, because she was the only girl he ever had interest in who wasn’t just trying to use him to get closer to Robb. Robb did not impress her in the least, and that’s what Jon liked best about her. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but she did have decent tits and she made him laugh and didn’t let him take himself too seriously. It worked until it didn’t; until he realized that he was pretending to be something he wasn’t, just to get a rise out of Ned and Catelyn. It also didn’t help that she was hooking up with a prick named Orell the whole time they were together. So eventually, Jon broke it off, much to his parents’ relief. But as Daenerys seemed to be drifting from him, finding more and more reasons to be annoyed with him, Ygritte found him on Instagram one day, and he followed her back, and that led to exchanging numbers, which led to flirty but innocent texts, which led to Daenerys finding out and using it as an excuse to get out of a relationship she obviously no longer wanted to be in.

And Ygritte was just...there. Jon naturally turned to her, because as bad a boyfriend as he was, he was even worse at being alone. And she really didn’t give a shit what he did, how much he drank, whom he hooked up with on the side, and he finally realized that she didn’t care so much about him as what she thought he could offer, and that he could still be lonely even if he wasn’t alone. So he pulled away, and eventually she had enough, because everyone has a breaking point, and she left.

He’d thought of trying to contact Dany after that; over the years he’d still stalked her on social media, but he could never work up the courage to reach out. She was always the one who got away, the one he yearned for, the one for whom he’d gladly forsake a seven-year relationship if there was even a hint she’d give him another chance. But she offered none.

So he’d been looking forward to this for the last few weeks. And, just as he’d hoped, he did find her alone. Unfortunately, all the things he wanted to say when he saw her were quickly forgotten when his inner douchebag just had to steal the spotlight and work very hard to remind her why leaving him was the best decision she ever made. 

He rests his head against the glass and just stares at her, like a voyeur, while she huddles close to her handsome dandy date, and they whisper and laugh, and she puts her hand over his and listens intently whenever he speaks, like he’s the only person in the room. 

Jon knows Daenerys isn’t perfect. She has plenty of flaws, and her own baggage, but right now he wishes for nothing more than to be at that table with her, being the one to make her and her flaws smile that smile as bright as the surface of the sun. It’s amazing to him that she still has this effect on him, eight years on. He’s a grown man, not a schoolboy anymore. He’s had his fair share of women, before, during, and after his time with Ygritte, and has no problem attracting them.

But they’re not _her._

Perhaps he’s just too damaged. A damaged, silly boy. And he asks himself what he thought was going to happen tonight. That she’d fall right into his arms, so he could drag her off to some dark corner, or his room on the seventh floor that faces the parking lot, and it would be like they were back in the Flea Bottom flat, when he was happier than he’d ever been, and he was pretty sure she was too?

He glowers as he watches the couple push their chairs from their table, Renly taking her by the arm and guiding her to the dance floor, his other hand resting comfortably on her lower back. He even kisses her hand, the bastard, and she smiles so genuinely, her eyes disappear into her rosy cheeks, and Jon remembers sourly when those smiles were reserved for him, and brightened even his darkest days, until the smiles grew dimmer, more forced and tightlipped, before they faded entirely.

He’s startled by a herd of girls in variations of the same tight, strappy dress pouring out onto the terrace, giggling through their drinks, chattering loudly, and he braces himself as he sees his sister Sansa, towering a head above most of them. Her eyes lock with his, then she stumbles away from the crowd, pulling on the bustline of her dress which keeps slipping down, teetering on the five-inch heels she absolutely didn’t need to wear, but probably did so just to be an asshole. She takes a drink of her beer, wincing as it goes down her throat, and chases it with a puff of her cigarette. She blows the smoke toward his face, another asshole move because she knows he’s trying to quit, which is why he has his butterscotch vape pen, but Sansa never misses an opportunity to ruin things for him if she can. He’s not even sure she realizes that she does it. Luckily, this night has turned out to be shit enough, and there’s probably not much she can do to make it worse.

“I saw you talking to Danielle earlier….” she slurs.

Yes, she could make it worse.

“Daenerys,” he says coolly. “Her name is Daenerys, and you know it is.” 

Sansa reaches into her tiny purse, and fishes around until she retrieves a cigarette and lighter, which she offers to him.

_Fuck it,_ he thinks, only wishing she had something stronger. Somebody at this horror show must have some weed or poppy tabs. Probably Bran, since stoned is his baseline. He’ll check later.

“I don’t even know why she’s here,” Sansa simpers, taking another exaggerated drag of her cigarette.

Jon puts his own in his mouth and lights it, inhaling a welcome hit and blowing the smoke out his nose. “You do know why,” he argues, the fag bouncing up and down between his teeth with each word. “You handled the RSVP’s. She’s a plus one.”

“Of all the plus ones,” his sister grumbles. “And trying to lure you back into her little web, is she?”

“Quite the opposite, actually.”

Sansa rests a hand hard on his shoulder and his instinct is to swat it away, repulsed. “Don’t let her get to you, Jonno. She’s toxic.”

Jon just snorts at how Sansa and people her age like to throw that word around, as if they’ve just learnt it, without really understanding what it means. Mercifully, her friend Jeyne calls her back over to their little flock just then, sparing him more of her sage advice.

Daenerys is not toxic. She is many things, but not that. If anyone is toxic, it’s him, with his drinking and partying and philandering and absolute refusal to grow up and behave like a responsible adult. And when he sees where she is now, an executive in a major architecture and design firm, in a new relationship, with her expensive dress and expensive shoes and perfectly manicured nails and fiery red lips, accomplishing so many of her goals despite not being born on third base as he was, the first word that comes to mind is impressive.

She’s impressive.

And lost to him.

His shoulders fall with his loud sigh, and he returns to the ballroom. He doesn’t see Daenerys now, but he wants to give Arya a kiss and his congratulations before he turns in for the night, even though it’s just past nine. He does see Bran, huddled in a corner with their baby brother Rickon, and Theon, an old friend of the family, and he’s tempted to join them, but suddenly the idea of getting blitzed behind the kitchen dumpster doesn’t appeal to him as much. Belatedly, he remembers that they’re supposed to vandalize Gendry’s Range Rover for the newlyweds’ drive to the airport tomorrow, but he can’t even get into that idea now, despite the bouquet of penis and tit-shaped balloons and blow up doll stashed in his room. He pulls out his phone and sends Bran a text about picking up the incriminating items later, if he wants, because he’s done. He’s just….done.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“There you are,” Renly grins as she slips into the chair next to him. 

“I just needed some air.” She reaches into her clutch and grabs her tube of lipstick for a touch up. Her run-in with Jon has her nerves abuzz, and what she needs, she isn’t sure, but Renly is the likeliest person to provide it. “Will you be ready to go soon?”

“Well, I’d hoped we could have at least one dance,” her date protests.

“Fine, as long as it’s not the Macarena.”

“Do they still play the Macarena at weddings?”

“The Starks would.”

Renly chuckles heartily, and she smiles too. He scoots closer to her and slides his arm over the back of her chair. “You know, you’d think for such a wealthy family the Starks would have more discerning tastes. I mean, chicken?” With disgust, he eyes his half-full dinner plate, that for some reason a waiter still has not cleared, probably because Ned refused to hire more than one.

Dany’s eyes fall on the man across their table, a tall brute with long greasy hair, and a burn scar on one side of his face and neck, masticating a helpless drumstick like it’s his last meal. “He seems to enjoy it,” she whispers, tipping her head just slightly in the man’s direction.

“He looks like he’d enjoy an old boot if you served it to him on a plate.”

Daenerys cackles at this, and when the deejay starts up the next tune, and announces to the crowd that it’s time to Macarena, they both absolutely lose it, her laughing so hard she has to hide her face in his shoulder. He really smells nice, like tobacco and cedar and bergamot, and she wishes he’d put his arm around her and not her chair, and she accidentally swats his inner thigh harder than she means to, but if he minds, he doesn’t say anything, even when she rests her hand on his knee. Eventually she calms herself, and they both turn their attention to the front of the hall, where she sees Jon’s awful sister Sansa dragging a young man onto the dance floor, the same guy Renly was talking to earlier.

Renly obviously notices too, and his eyes twinkle with mischief.

“Who’s he?” Dany asks, referring to Sansa’s dance partner.

“His name is Loras Tyrell. Apparently he and Ginger there are engaged.”

_Poor man._

“He’s got moves.”

“He’s as gay as a maypole,” Renly mutters, and Dany’s eyes go wide.

“Really? How do you know?”

“I have a sense for these things,” he replies, his eyes remaining fixed on Mr. Tyrell and his sculpted ass.

“Then you’d think he would’ve convinced her not to pair those shoes with that dress.”

They burst into laughter again, and she’s starting to feel warmer and stranger and maybe wants Renly to kiss her, because ever since she ran into Jon, she’s….restless. That’s the word for it, restless. But Renly continues to be the perfect gentleman, and they carry on with snarking about the other guests.

“You’re really terrible,” she purrs in his ear after a particularly biting remark about Sansa’s hair - she looks like she should be milking goats - and Renly’s lips curl into a wicked grin.

“What was the quote from that movie? If you can’t say something nice, come sit by me?”

They giggle some more until the stupid song fades into the next stupid song (seriously this is the worst deejay in history) and then Renly squeezes her hand and looks in her eyes and she wonders if this is finally it, because her blood is fizzing with anticipation, and she’s not sure where this sudden intense attraction to her co-worker came from, or if it’s even about him, but she gets ready, and leans closer to him.

“Dany, I think you and I are going to be legendary friends.”

It’s like an audible record scratch (maybe it is, knowing this deejay), and she pulls back and looks at him incredulously. “Um...friends. Yeah…” she sputters, embarrassment washing over her.

Renly’s eyes widen, then his face falls. “Dany...you thought….Oh, gods. Shit.” His throat bobs with a hard swallow, and he looks nervous, then he scoots closer to her and takes both her hands in his. “I like you very much, Daenerys. But….I’m a bit of a maypole myself.”

What he’s revealing finally dawns on her, and she takes a deep breath and sinks back in her seat. How could she not have seen?

“It’s not something I broadcast,” Renly continues. “I’m not ashamed of it, I just don’t want that to be what defines me, so I’m careful with who I tell. And I trust you enough to tell you. It can still be a liability, personally, professionally, even in this day and age. And to make matters worse, my brothers still haven’t stepped out of the neolithic era.” He tips his head in the direction of two men at the long table near the front of the hall; the groom’s father, who looks like he’s making love to his drink, and a stern-faced, balding man sitting beside him.

“I’m sorry,” Dany says quietly. “That must be difficult.”

Renly just shrugs with the last beat of the song, which fades into the peppy disco beat of _Funkytown._ At least it isn’t the Electric Slide. “Let’s go dance,” he says with a genteel smile, which she returns.

“Lead the way.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He isn’t asleep, but is zoned out staring at the plastered ceiling from his bed, as the light from the TV screen flickers and flashes, casting grotesque shadows, burning his eyes, when a knock on his door rouses him. He checks his phone; 11 p.m., and instead of hooking up with a bridesmaid or getting shitfaced with his brothers and Theon, he’s back in his room, brooding. At least he’s wearing pants, a pair of navy blue joggers, and a ratty green White Harbor Mermen jersey that he’s had since he was sixteen. He doesn’t recognize himself. In truth, he’s been thinking hard about things of late. Changes he needs to make, not knowing if he has the strength or courage to make them, options he’s been considering, and facing the brutal truth that he’s just not happy. It’s not a mystery, and hasn’t been, but he realizes the profound effect that a five minute conversation with his ex-girlfriend had on him, bringing all this to a tipping point.

And he’s surprised as fuck to look through his peephole to see that very ex-girlfriend standing on the other side, her image distorted, but he can tell she’s biting her lip and looking nervously up and down the hallway, and possibly considering leaving. So before she can change her mind, he wrenches the chain latch apart and flings his door open and visibly startles her.

“Um...hi,” she says tentatively.

“Hey.” He leans against the door jamb, unsure what to do with his hands, so he just shoves them in his pockets.

“Listen, I wanted to apologize,” Daenerys blurts out. “Some of the things I said earlier...I wasn’t very gracious, and I’m sorry if I offended you.”

He can’t really process what she’s saying, because her eyes are so blue and her lips are full and pillowy and he remembers what it was like to have his own pressed against them. She’s changed her clothes, now wearing simple black slacks, a white t-shirt, and a long red cardigan that he’d like to rub between his fingers, because it looks so soft to the touch. Probably cashmere. Her designer pumps have been replaced by a pair of sneakers, and her hair is looped in a careless ponytail, and there’s barely a trace of makeup except some red gloss on her lips, and a smudge of mascara, so it looks like she’d gone back to her room, perhaps got ready for bed, but then changed her mind and decided to go back out. He debates inviting her in, but then he remembers the tit balloons and thinks better of it.

“I probably deserved it,” he replies, looking down at his feet. “I said some things too, so….sorry.”

“Yes, but that’s just the way you are, and I….” She stops herself, and he can see she regrets her choice of words, but it still hurts. He’s spent approximately seven minutes with Daenerys tonight, and she’s not his former lover, so much as a mirror, forcing him to see the dark and unpleasant undersurface he tries so hard to conceal with his cavalier attitude toward almost everything. 

An eternity of silence passes as he contemplates why she’s here. Trying to apologize is a nice gesture, but nothing that couldn’t be done by text. Not that he minds.

“How’d you find me?” he asks at length.

One corner of her lip ticks upward. “Oh, it was a grueling odyssey of going to the front desk and asking for your room number.”

Of course. He doesn’t know what he was thinking.

“Of course, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Another pregnant pause. He doesn’t want her to go, but he’s at a loss for what to say, because he seriously doubts she wants him to break down in her arms and fight all his demons. He hasn’t seen her in years, not in person anyway, and there are any number of trite questions he could ask, just to catch up, but his mind is blank at the moment, because she’s so pretty and standing here in front of him like she never left. 

She must see that the conversation is going nowhere, for her lips toggle between a smile and a frown, and he’s worried she’s going to leave now, to walk away from him one more time and never look back, but the charming half smile wins out.

“Do you want to go for a drink? A real drink I mean.”

Oh but he does. And doesn’t. Liquor is the last thing he needs right now. He’s become increasingly reliant on it over the years, and it’s only recently occurred to him that it might just be a problem. But he also wants more time with her.

“Sure, just give me a minute.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She doesn’t know what she’s doing. She doesn’t know what she hopes will happen. Well, she does know, if she’s being honest; she just doesn’t want to admit it.

She stands outside room 707 for what seems like hours, analyzing the consequences. She could just text him, or, hell, send a letter, but she believes, with no logic behind it, that this needs a personal touch.

She left Renly at the reception, making her apologies, claiming she had a headache. It wasn’t exactly a lie; her thoughts are pounding against her skull. It just didn’t sit right with her, the way her conversation with Jon left off. Oh, he was as smug and insufferable as ever, but behind that, she recognized the vulnerability of the boy she used to know, who was lonely and felt inadequate, even if he tried to cover it up, and some of the things she said to him kept nagging her, swarming her with guilt, because she’d been mean. A mean girl. That’s not who she is. Not who she’s ever been. She doesn’t use her words to injure people, or, if she does, she finds no enjoyment in it. And earlier she’d mocked his family (though not in front of him) and his ex-girlfriend, and his character, and, not so subtly, his value as a person, trying to make him jealous of Renly, and of her, because she wanted to wipe that arrogant expression off his pretty face.

Of course, he may not have even noticed, or cared. But she does, and she won’t be able to sleep tonight if she doesn’t get this off her chest, so she decides to get on with it, and raises her hand, and raps on the door.

When he answers, her heart stops. She doesn’t understand how he can wear sweats and an old jersey and those stupid Harry Potter glasses and still look so delicious, possibly even more than he did in his tux. She starts with an apology, and part of her hopes that he’ll invite her in, but surprisingly, he doesn’t, and she’s not ready for this to be the end of it, the way they’ll leave things, his lasting flavor of her, and she shocks herself by asking him to go for a drink.

_What the fuck am I doing?_ She frets while she waits for him in the hall. She quickly trots to the elevator and checks herself in the mirror hanging opposite the doors. Her eye makeup isn’t great, but it will do. Her hair is serviceable. Reasonably satisfied that her appearance doesn’t betray what an absolute mess she is inside, she returns to his door just in time for him to step out.

He’s wearing jeans.

Jon’s ass was made for jeans, just as his abs were made for tight t-shirts, but he’s thrown on a pullover instead, and it looks like he ran a comb through his hair. He’s still wearing his glasses; no wonder, he probably didn’t want to fool with his contacts again.

“I feel a bit underdressed,” he comments.

_Just wait until later,_ the devil on her shoulder sneers, and if it was an actual person she could chokeslam, she would. She doesn’t need to be having these thoughts about Jon. That’s over. It’s in the past.

But she’s here, inviting him for drinks.

Sunspear Resort has several restaurants and bars, and they choose the one furthest from the reception, called the Red Viper. It sounds like a place that should be hazy with cigarette smoke and call girls and mobsters, but really it’s just a little lounge attached to a restaurant that’s closed for renovations. He has a whiskey neat, and she has hers on the rocks. To be honest, she doesn’t enjoy alcohol and rarely imbibes. She just couldn’t think of a better option. She didn’t want to go back to the reception, he didn’t ask her to come in, and she wasn’t about to invite him back to her room. Drinks are casual. Drinks are safe.

And they actually have a nice conversation. No barbs, no hostility, just two people catching up. He asks about her work, and tells her that he’s currently working for his dad, who was none too happy when he dropped out of university all those years ago, and sees this as a means of being repaid. Jon still dreams of building things with his own hands from his own vision. He tells her he’s thinking of buying some acreage in a rural area of the North called The Gift, and building a cabin, but right now he has a flat in Winterfell, near his folks, where he resides with his dog. He shows her some pictures of the beastly dog with the whitest fur and reddest eyes, that looks like he could tear apart a grown man, but Jon swears he’s an overgrown baby, afraid of his own shadow.

She can read his disappointment in himself, so she downplays her own good fortune; the bayside condo on Dragonstone Island, the expense account, the luxury car, because none of it matters anyway. She’s proud that she’s an independent woman who put in the blood, sweat, and tears to accomplish her goals, but there’s no need to flaunt it to make Jon feel badly about himself. He knows he can be better, and do more, and forge his own path. He is a capable, smart guy. He just needs to grow up. And she can sort of tell from the course of their conversation that he’s trying.

They’re chatting about what Jon thinks of his sister’s new husband, and she’s trying to ignore how sexy those glasses look after all, and how she sort of wishes she could swap places with his whiskey glass, with the way he slips it between his lips, when he stops midstream and jerks his phone from his pocket.

“Fuck!”

“What?”

“Bran was supposed to come by my room and pick up...the stuff.” He stands and starts scrolling and texting.

She stands too. “Stuff?”

“Sorry, that probably sounds a lot worse than…..sorry. The stuff to decorate the getaway car. You know…”

“Oh, right,” she nods.

“He was supposed to come by and get it, but he never responded to my text. Probably got high and forgot.”

This takes Daenerys by surprise. “Bran?”

Jon rolls his eyes. “He’s a pharmacy.”

“Do the parents know?”

“They tend to see only what they want to see,” Jon scoffs. He shoves his phone in his front pocket. “But anyway, I guess if he doesn’t respond, I won’t worry about it.” He starts to sit again, but she reaches for his arm and he stops.

“So you have it all in your room?”

“Yes…..”

All she has to do is arch her brows, and a grin spreads across his face.

“Let’s go.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His heart is racing.

She’s coming to his room. She’s going to be in his room, with that king-sized bed, not that it matters because they won’t be there for long, but she’s going to be in his room, and he’s not sure he can be held responsible for his actions - well, of course he can, he’s not an animal - but that doesn’t quell his urges.

At the bar, they had a nice conversation. And it took him all of thirty seconds to realize that he still loves her, where it matters, even though he’ll probably never see her again after tonight. He never stopped. He tried to forget, or cover it up and ignore it, but it’s always been there, no matter how many years apart. It’s that deep-rooted in him. It’s not like he’s ready to get down on one knee; that’s absurd. But the foundation is there, laid more than a decade ago, and if she’d let him, he’d be willing to build upon it, something strong and lasting. However, he knows he doesn’t have the _stuff_ yet to make it that way, and he doesn’t know if he ever will. At the very least, perhaps he can learn from his mistakes, make himself the sort of man who would deserve the love of someone like her, or, rather, _her,_ because Daenerys isn’t like anyone else.

He fumbles with the key card, so nervous that he can’t remember which way to insert it, but she’s a good sport about it, and doesn’t tease him. She sits in the chair beside the door as he heads for the back of the room, to the cupboard, and grabs the cardboard box full of his supplies, then he takes a deep breath and wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans, and retrieves the balloon bouquet from the bathroom. His eyes are downcast when he re-enters the living area with that in hand. 

She looks up from her phone, and her eyes saucer. “Are those supposed to be….tits?”

“Um….yeah,” he sputters, blushing. “And a dick.”

She laughs for a long time about that, and it puts him at ease.

“I’m not sure resort management will appreciate it much.”

“Ned’s friends with the owner, we’re good. And this is Dorne. You go to Shadow City and see the same walking down the street.”

He wrangles the helium filled balloons into a garbage bag, and she stands and surveys the box.

“Window paint, lube, streamers…..a blow up doll,Jon?” She rolls her eyes as she lifts the unopened package from the box.

He smiles back. “That reminds me, I hope he has a little air compressor in there, otherwise, how good are your lungs?”

”Better than yours, Smokey,” she jokes, poking her elbow in his ribs before continuing her inventory. Condoms (for the glove box), confetti, and anything else that will make a complete mess of his brother-in-law’s fancy ride, but Gendry has an easy sense of humor. Daenerys seems satisfied that the supplies are adequate to get the job done, so Jon retrieves Gendry’s spare key from the top of his dresser, and they head to the parking garage.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is fun that they’re having. Genuine, laugh so hard you piss yourself fun. She feels like they’re eighteen again, when she couldn’t resist his smile or the mischief in his eyes. They work together well; they only debate the correct spelling of “horny,” but at least he’s grammatically proper as he scrawls “Honk if You’re Horny” on the windows. They tie the balloons to the antenna, fill the glove box so full of condoms that it almost doesn’t close, and cover the trunk and back seat in confetti and streamers and toilet paper. She does convince Jon not to smear cherry-flavored lube all over the steering wheel, because the car is so beautiful, and she knows how pissed she’d be if someone did the same to her Audi, no matter how good-humored the intention.

She finishes arranging the blowup doll, which she did have to inflate herself, across the front seats, and slides out, her feet landing lightly, because without her notice he’s come up behind her, and his hands are on her waist, easing her down, and they’re so warm and firm against the fabric of her trousers. Heat flashes through her, then he lets go, and the absence of his touch burns as she turns to face him. He suddenly seems so much taller than she, and his eyes are locked on hers, then he reaches for her cheek, brushing it with his thumb.

“You have something there,” he says, his voice low like a wolf’s growl, and she spins around to check the side mirror, seeing the streak of blue window paint just below her eye, and she wonders how she didn’t notice it earlier. She tries to rub it away, and it just smears, and now she has it on her hand too, and he laughs, Sadly, she wonders if this might be the last time she hears him laugh, because they’re finished now, and she’s out of excuses to prolong the night, short of inviting him to her room. And oh, how she wants him in her room. The way he looks, and the effects of the whiskey, and how long it’s been since someone even kissed her….

“What are you laughing at?”

“You look like a Smurf.”

“Yeah?” She swipes her hand across his cheek, leaving a smudge of blue. “Now you do too.”

She tries to move her hand away, but he captures it, shooting electricity up her arm as he snakes his other hand around her waist again and draws her closer. Her blood is pumping in her ears, her knees are weak, and she should not be responding this way, but she can’t stop herself, and when he leans in and kisses her, she does not hesitate. She raises to her toes and threads her fingers through his hair and presses herself closer to him as his tongue plays at the seam of her lips, before dipping inside her mouth, meeting hers with fervor. He pivots with her, bracing her against the car door, his body hard against hers, his need stirring in his jeans. She feels herself wettening as their lips and tongues duel and dance, advance and retreat, and his hands make their way up her waist to cup her breasts over her t-shirt, and he sucks in a sharp breath when he discovers she’s not wearing a bra.

“Dany,” he exhales, and she wants nothing more than to throw open the car door and shove him into the seat and climb atop him and ride him like a mechanical bull, but it’s moving too fast, and she’s starting to panic. Where is this going?

_Who cares,_ her little devil whispers, _just fuck him._

Her hands find his ass, and he flinches, but quickly eases and presses into her even harder, his cock now full and thick against her leg. He has a beautiful cock, if she recalls. And he knows how to use it. She knows she only needs to say the word.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He feels like he’s floating, his body and soul feather light. He’s wanted to do this since he found her on the terrace, and he knows she wanted him to, no matter how prickly or standoffish she behaved. It’s always been this way with them, their attraction too powerful to overcome, not that he’s ever been particularly concerned about overcoming it.

And now he’s kissing her, and she’s giving as good as she gets, every brush of her lips and tongue against his stoking the fire within him.

His cock is so hard right now, it aches. He wants to fuck her. Wants to throw her down in the front seat of his brother-in-law’s car and dominate her, and pleasure her until she can stand it no longer, and then do it some more, but then he senses a moment of heistancy from her, and he eases his assault until he feels her hands kneading his ass, urging him on.

Her tongue tastes of cinnamon and whiskey, and she smells amazing, her perfume combined with her own essence triggering memories of mornings spent tangled in sheets, of weekend road trips or study sessions in the library….

…..Of fights, and disappointments, and hurt and abandonment, of all the ways he fucked up.

He should just let it go, and live for tonight only. She clearly wants him, and there’s no harm in giving the lady what she wants. It’s not like she could possibly be thinking of anything more than this. She came to this wedding with someone else (and honestly it hadn’t occurred to him to wonder why she’s not with Renly right now, instead of in this parking garage with her back against a car door and her tongue in his mouth).

He breaks the kiss for a breath, dizzy and disheveled, hard as a rock, frustrated and longing. Her hands have slipped under his shirt tail and are playing at the small of his back.

“Would you like to come back to my room?” she pants, her eyes hooded and glazed with lust.

Probably not a great idea. But then, Jon has never shied from bad decisions when there’s instant gratification to be found, and this is no different. He wants this, wants her, and she wants him, and she’s a grown woman, and sober, and able to make her own decisions. She wants fucked. She couldn’t throw a rock without hitting a man or woman who’d be happy to oblige. And she chooses him, if only for a night, to scratch an itch, or to capture a shred of the past, it doesn’t matter why.

“I don’t think your date would appreciate it…” he starts, before she interrupts him by latching her mouth onto his neck, her silky tongue teasing that sensitive spot at the juncture of his shoulder.

So it must not be a problem, then.

“Dany,” he stutters as she continues her ministrations. His balls are so tight, his dick stretched to its limit, the blood drained from every other part of his body. “Only if you’re sure.”

Her arms tighten around him, and she tugs at his hair, tilting his head to expose more of his neck, and what little self-control he normally possesses evaporates. He pulls away and opens the car door.

“Um...Jon.”

He fumbles with the latch of the glove box, the dozens of condoms he’d stuffed inside spilling out, but he doesn’t care as he grabs a handful, and shoves them in his pocket, and her eyes gleam with wickedness.

“Confident, aren’t you?” she purrs. 

He just nudges the door closed again, and takes her hand.

“Ladies first.”

And she smiles.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She doesn’t doubt it on the elevator ride to the lobby. Nor does she doubt it when she tells him her room number, agreeing to meet rather than go together, so they can avoid the eyes his family no doubt has scattered throughout the hotel, because who needs their shit, but when she takes the first elevator to the fifteenth floor, her confidence wavers. What if he changes his mind? What if he’s just fucking with her? No, that can’t be it. Not with the way he was kissing her. Jon is a player, but he likes a good shag more than anything, so even if this means nothing to him, he won’t pass this up. Her cunt is on fire, she knows that. Every nerve in her body is crackling with anticipation, so much that she feels she could shoot flames from her fingertips.

This elevator is so fucking slow, and packed like a clown car, and stops on literally every floor to drop off or pick up another guest, none of whom could possibly have anything more important to do than she does.

She hasn’t had sex in over a year. The last one was an arrogant shit named Daario, a client she was paired with on a major, months-long project in Meereen. It was probably the heat, and the pressure cooker nature of their working relationship, and her need to have actual flesh inside her, but he made no secret of his interest, and eventually she defied her professional standards, only to wind up dissatisfied and having to finish herself off in the bathroom afterward. But at least the project was a success, and Daario was so complimentary of her work ethic and creativity, Mr. Mormont had promoted her. She hadn’t slept her way to the top. Fuck that. She just happened to sleep with someone when she already had a foot on the last rung of the ladder, and she’d proven herself with her work.

She eschews fix ups, and hookup apps, and going to bars just to sit there with all the other exotic fish waiting to be plucked from the bowl and taken home. She’s made peace with the notion that she’s going to be single, and there is nothing wrong with that, no matter how much her mother nags her about it. She has her career, a small circle of friends, her pet bearded dragon (a nameday gift from her brother a few years back), a great job, and a routine. She’s content.

But even the most contented, successful, self-reliant and modern woman needs a good fuck now and then, and she’s more than ready for this.

Finally, _finally,_ the fucking chocolate factory elevator reaches the 15th floor, and she practically runs to her room. She straightens the bedclothes, throws her dirty laundry in a drawer, and sweeps the snack packages and tiny liquor bottles and her nasal spray from the night table. She debates whether to change into the lingerie she brought along, just in case things went there with Renly, but decides against it. This isn’t about a grand romantic evening. This is Jon, a man she’s fucked more times than she could begin to count, a man who knows the combination to her lock, and doesn’t care about unwrapping her like a present. So she brushes her teeth, manages to wash the blue paint from her cheek and hand, swipes deodorant under her arms, and freshens her nethers with a baby wipe, taking note of how sopping wet her panties are, how sensitive she is at the slightest touch.

She’s going to come the second he’s inside her. And she’s going to keep coming, and he won’t, until she has. As selfish as Jon can be in other ways, he was always a patient and generous lover, trying to stretch it out as long as possible, as if joining with her was not just for pleasure, but his sustenance. He’s so intense about it, she remembers, always looking in her eyes (if they were face to face, anyway), touching her everywhere, igniting her from head to toe, and following her into the inferno.

Her heart is in her throat when he knocks on the door, but she takes a second to collect herself, and she smooths her shirt and slacks and glides calmly to the door. She opens it, and those yearning brown eyes meet hers.

“Come in,” she bids.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He can barely cross the threshold before collecting her in his arms as he pushes the door closed with his foot. He doesn’t care about other locks and latches, save the ones it takes to unlock the release he intends to give her. He hopes he still has what it takes.

He thought about that a lot, on the way back to his room, and on the elevator ride. When he and Dany started sleeping together at university, she’d been a virgin, so he’d been something of a tutor; certainly the only subject in which she could use his tutelage. And she was a quick study. But in the eight years since they’d split, surely she’s had many other men. She’s gorgeous and successful and single, and a wild thing in the sheets. She now has a basis for comparison, probably many a man in her portfolio better than he, and it sent him spirling for a hot minute, because if this is only meant to be one night, he wants to be sure it’s a night to remember.

He can’t let his insecurities get the better of him now, though. He knows her and knows what she likes, and her kisses feel the same as they used to, curling his toes and straining his cock, so he’ll do what he can.

He cups her face in his hands and plunders her mouth, and she gives it right back. He loves kissing her, always did. He hasn’t really choreographed this in his mind, he just knows he needs to be inside her, before it turns out this is all a dream, and he’s still lounging in his room watching the TV reflect from the ceiling.

He wants to be the one to undress her, and thankfully she’s only wearing her t-shirt and slacks now. Earlier in the garage he nearly spilled himself in his jeans when his roving hands found she wasn’t wearing a bra, and she still isn’t as he removes her white t-shirt. He can’t help taking a moment to admire her tits, so beautiful in their size and shape they could only be a product of nature, but he doesn’t have time to linger just yet, so he’ll give them proper attention later. As he unbuttons her slacks and lowers them down her legs, he can feel the dampness, the heat trapped in her lacy panties, and he glances a finger over her center, and feels her knees buckle. That’s one thing about fucking Daenerys. Her body was always so singularly responsive to his.

In turn, she tears his shirt over his head, then unbuttons his jeans and pushes them down over his hips. Their lips only part when they have to. He doesn’t even break the kiss to open the condom wrapper he thankfully pulled from his pocket before his pants were at his ankles, and he slides it over his cockhead and unrolls it down his shaft with practiced ease before perching her on the desk. He takes only a moment to sweep his thumb over her swollen clit, and she arches against him, and he licks the sweetness from his finger, then locks eyes with her and enters her with a gasp.

She’s so tight, despite her slickness, her walls coaxing him in and loath to let go. He withdraws slowly, leaving only the head inside, before thrusting again, slower, deeper, because if he pounds into her like a jackrabbit he’ll lose his load long before he’s ready. Not that there isn’t plenty in reserve. He hasn’t had sex for a few weeks, and hasn’t had good sex for much longer than that.

Every time his cock plunges into her, it’s like finding home. She feels the same, sounds the same, looks at him the same, like he’s the only man in the world to her, and he’s perfectly adored. Her pupils are blown, her skin is flushed, her lips dewy and parted, and he can’t help but capture them again. He leans in harder, forcing her upper back against the mirror behind her. He hopes it doesn’t fall from the wall, but it’s sexy as fuck, watching himself as he fucks her. He can’t do it for too long, because the pressure is already building, and her hips are starting to rock against his, her legs locking around his waist, his pelvis pressing against her nub.

He could always tell when she was ready to come, the way she’d move more frantically just as she’s doing now. It still amazes him that he can do this to a woman, let alone her, and it hastens his own release.

When she starts crying his name and clawing at his shoulders, he’s sent over the edge, sinking into the abyss, pulling her under with him. His body locks and stills as her pretty cunt spasms around him, milking him dry. He wishes he’d thought to ask if she was on birth control, because it would be even better to have her bare, then realizes that, since they’ve not discussed their sexual histories since last they were together, it’s better to be safe than sorry. He’s sure she’s clean. He’s not so confident about himself, though.

He collapses his head against her shoulder, panting like a dog in the hot sun, and she absently strokes his curls, her own breaths labored. Only when his cock starts to soften does he pull out, carefully removing the cum-filled condom, and she licks her lips lustfully. He remembers her telling him once that she liked the taste of him. He doesn’t know if it was true, or she just thought it would please him to hear, but after she learned to give proper head with his instruction, he certainly wasn’t going to argue, and he always made sure to repay her in kind.

He helps her off the desktop, petite thing that she is, and kisses her palm, smiling through the tops of his eyes. Legs still shaking, he guides her to her bed, easing her down, spreading her legs, cradling himself between them. Already his cock starts to fatten again, but he ignores it. This is about her now. For the longest moment he hovers over her, careful to support most of his own weight, and just studies her face, the subtle lines on her forehead and the corners of her eyes that just make her sexier and more alluring in his esteem, because if he wanted a sorority girl, he’d go fuck one of Sansa’s friends. There’s still an innocence and vulnerability about her that was there before, but more self assurance, more wisdom. He leans down and kisses her again, this time slow and soft, and she moans against his mouth, and rocks against his hardening cock, ready to receive him again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You like this, love,” he murmurs, swiping his lips across her jaw, down her neck, before looking in her eyes. One arm braces his weight, and with his other hand he plays at her tits, traces the outline of her ribs, and she’s melting into him, putty in his hands. “You liked havin’ me inside you.” 

His accent is thicker, his words and hands weaving a spell, and she can only nod. The heat is building in her belly again, the need to have him, but he’s not going to make it easy.

“I’m gonna make this the night of your life,” he continues, as he grinds his hips against her, his cock fat and hot and not nearly where she wants it to be. To encourage him closer, she slides her legs along his, spreading herself more, knees bent, open for him.

“You don’t have to talk….” she pleads as she rolls her hips.

“Somebody’s greedy.” He grins that infuriating grin that tells her he knows he’s won.

“I want you…..”

“I know,” he says as he kisses her neck. “And by the time this night is over, I’m gonna make sure that it’s me you think of when another man’s inside ya. It’s me you’ll always want, like I’ll always want you.”

He starts to move his lips lower, over her breasts and navel, and she knows what’s coming, and still when his tongue first flicks over her clit, she isn’t prepared. She’s still sensitive, recovering from what he did to her on the desk, and it tickles a little. She squirms and shifts, but he grips her hips hard, holding her down. His beard bristles against her inner thigh as his mouth does what it does. Jon is the virtuoso, her body is the harp, and he plucks each string expertly as his tongue swirls and licks and sucks and teases. Soon, his fingers join the effort as he inserts one, then two inside her, crooking them forward to brush against that secret spot, the sounds of her wetness utterly sinful as he devours and pleasures her, and when she comes again, it’s more than physical release, as her heart is awash with a feeling she’s not had since…..him.

It would be so easy to fall in love with him again.

When she can take no more, she squeezes her thighs around his head, and he relents, looking up at her with that maddening, satisfied smirk. Then he crawls up her body, ready to fuck her again, not caring if she needs to recover. 

“Condom,” he says breathlessly as he raises on his haunches, and she sits up with him. She kisses him then, tasting her flavor on his tongue, sliding onto his lap and pushing him down. For a moment, his eyes grow wide as he thinks she’s going to ride him bareback, but instead of lowering herself on him, she makes her way down his body and takes him in her mouth.

He’s sweet and salty, the precum already beading on his cockhead, mixed with the remnants from earlier. She always loved his taste, truly, and how thick and hot he was in her mouth, how she had to fight to take all of him in, how it stretched her to her limit, but put him under her complete control. 

She works her tongue along the underside of his shaft while she tugs at his balls, twisting, squeezing, teasing his sack and perineum and the rim of his asshole. It’s naughty and completely intimate, not something she’d ever do for a one-night stand, only for someone familiar, someone special.

Under her attentions, his hips buck and he moans and urges her on, _Yes, yes, yes_ perseverating on his lips, and she loves it. She turns her focus to the underside of his cockhead, where he’s most sensitive, and as one hand works his balls, the other works his shaft. She knows the routine well, though it feels anything but, and within a few seconds, he’s unloading in her mouth, his hips arching off the bed, forcing himself deeper. She struggles not to gag as she drinks him down, then looks up at him as if she’s just polished off the last of the chocolate cake. And doing this to him, seeing the glazed look in his eyes, the flush of his chest, the beads of perspiration on his brow, makes her want him again.

She’s in for a long night, and she doesn’t mind at all. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He wakes before she does. He always did. It’s funny. For as driven and responsible as Dany is, she could sleep the day away, whereas he’s always been an early riser. He has Ned to credit for that. Living in a house with six children, individual attention was hard to come by, but he always found his dad early in the mornings, sometimes having coffee on the kitchen porch, sometimes in his study, but always alone, and even if it was just for a few minutes, it was special time, so he never got out of the habit, even when he had no one to wake up to. With her, he’d just watch her sleep for a bit, and pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, just as he’s doing now.

Her hair is a wreck, and her mascara is caked and smeared below her bottom lashes, and her breath is probably horrible; but still, naked and wrapped haphazardly in hotel sheets, the morning sunlight streaking through the blinds and falling across her form, she’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.

He needs to get going, but doesn’t want to wake her. His family will start to wonder where he is. They’re hosting a breakfast to farewell Arya and Gendry to their honeymoon, and he’s sure Gendry’s going to want his spare car keys. But he doesn’t feel like dealing with them just yet, or ever, really. He just wants this moment, watching her breasts rise and fall with her slow breaths, listening to her cute little moans, or seeing those kiss-swollen lips quirk into small smiles. He does go ahead and dress, not that he’d mind another go at her, but they used all the condoms last night.

The best night of his life, something he knew he’d been missing, and to have it again - to have _her_ again - was the sweetest relief. 

Her eyes flutter open, and she looks a bit out of sorts when she first sits up, but when her eyes fall on him, it looks like relief.

“Good morning,” he says.

“Morning.” Slowly, she breaks into a toothy smile, and he kisses her. He was right about the breath. But who gives a fuck. She grimaces at the taste in her mouth, then her cheeks flush, as if he hasn’t seen her at her worst, many times.

On the night table, her phone buzzes, breaking the tension, only to be replaced with more as she scowls at the name on the display. Renly.

“Your Prince is calling,” he says with more bitterness than he intended, and she gives him a chastening look as she answers. He moves to the lounge area of the room so as not to hear their conversation, which ends quickly.

“I was supposed to meet him for breakfast before checkout,” she explains as she places her phone back on the night table.

“Probably the same breakfast I’m supposed to be at,” he says. “With the newlyweds?”

She looks at him strangely, so she must not know what he’s talking about. Good. If they were both supposed to be there, and didn’t show up, it would raise questions neither of them want to answer. 

“I told him I wasn’t feeling well and I’d just meet him in the lobby. But maybe...maybe you should go to yours. You’ll want to see Arya before she leaves.”

She looks sad when she says it. He walks over to the bed and crouches in front of her, his hands on her knees. The sheet covers her breasts, and he’s the sexiest woman he’s ever seen, and he doesn’t want to go either.

“Can I have your number?” he asks, holding a breath.

“Jon…..”

He pulls his phone from his pocket and unlocks it and hands it to her. She holds it for a few seconds, contemplating, then a warm smile spreads over his face as her fingers get to work, and a second later her screen lights up with a text from him.

“There,” she says, handing it back to him. “Now I guess we’ll see who breaks first.”

He kisses her again, and she lets him. His body responds, and he’d far prefer to make love to her again than spend the morning with his family, but they’re out of time. And he needs time to think, too. Last night hit him like a ton of bricks with what it’s forced him to admit.

That he still loves her.

That he always will.

That he’s a gods damned mess.

And that, before he can devote himself to someone, there are changes he needs to make.

“I guess we will,” he replies as their lips part. “But I know I’ll miss you, and I’ll never forget this.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She should be prepping for this meeting with the partners, but she can’t concentrate. And she hates that, because she’s always been able to focus on her work, no matter the upheaval of her personal life.

She’s thought of texting him several times. But she wasn’t going to be the one to initiate it. It’s not like she expected it to go beyond that night; this was Jon, after all. She should have known. Same game, same player. At least she got great sex out of it. But great sex that left her wanting more.

It’s more than that, though. She misses him. Not just his body, but his companionship. Or maybe it’s just anyone’s companionship. She still hangs out with Renly, though she thinks he’s met someone, so he’s been scarce of late. And she has Missandei from yoga class, and her neighbor Tyrion. But that isn’t the same as someone to love. 

So instead of working on spreadsheets or reviewing project proposals, she’s staring at the homepage of WesterosMatch.com. A free, seven-day trial. Her cursor hovers over the purple box that says TRY IT FREE, but she moves it to the top right of the screen and clicks the X instead. She’s not there. Not yet. 

She could give Drogo a call. He’s a fitness coach she met when she decided to train for a half-marathon, and she certainly likes looking at him. They had hooked up a few times. He’s too brutish for her taste, but sometimes she likes being manhandled. She’s angry and frustrated and that’s the sort of sex she needs. 

She picks up her phone and starts scrolling through her contacts, when her laptop pings, alerting her to a new email.

It’s just the daily quarantined message list, one she doesn’t check most days, but out of curiosity she opens it.

Hello,

A message from the following sender was

placed in your quarantine folder:

whitewolf3@westerosmail.com

Subject: Hello Gorgeous

This message will be deleted from your folder in 

30 days. To preview this message, click ** here **

Her heart skips. She doesn’t know his email address, but it sounds like him. And the subject line….she takes a deep breath, and clicks, and tears well in her eyes as she reads.

_**From:** Jon S <whitewolf3@westerosmail.com>  
_

_**To:** Targaryen, Daenerys < d_targaryen@mormontassociates.org > _

_**Date:** 2404.2020AC _

_**Subject:** Hello Gorgeous _

_Dany,_

_I hope you’re well. Does it count as breaking first if I send an email?_

_As soon as I left your room that day, I wanted to call you, and every day since, but I couldn’t. But not for the reason you probably think._

_For the last six weeks, I’ve been a guest at Highgarden, which sounds like a five-star resort but is really the most ironically named (and most expensive) private rehabilitation facility in Westeros. You may not realize, but as it turns out, I am a fuck up. I have been for years. But I’ve never really faced any consequences for it. Not until I lost you. I could have taken the opportunity back then to look at my mistakes and changes I could make, but I wasn’t ready to face it, and accept responsibility. So I kept doing what I was doing, and hobbled along for eight more years, hiding my unhappiness with liquor and women, living with someone who enabled my behavior, staying self-absorbed and self-destructive._

_I’ve known for a while that I need to make major changes, but seeing you at the wedding, and spending the night with you, gave me that last bit of courage I needed to do something about it. To admit that I don’t have all the answers, and I couldn’t do this without help. So after I left Dorne, I started researching, and found this place, and they’ve helped me realize that I can’t just treat my symptoms; I have to get to the root of the problem. I’ve explored that a lot, and I’ve discovered so much about myself, and it’s going to be a long road that takes a lifetime to walk, but I know I can, because I have no other choice._

_I don’t know what this will mean for us, if there is still an us, but I want you to know that I love you. Always have, always will. I was never unfaithful to you, I swear on my life, but I know I wasn’t the man you deserved. I want to apologize for that, and for all the ways I hurt you or disappointed you. I ask your forgiveness._

_I’m not a bloody poet, so I’ll steal the words of one:_

_Maybe I didn't love you_

_Quite as often as I could have_

_And maybe I didn't treat you_

_Quite as good as I should have_

_If I made you feel second best_

_Girl I'm sorry I was blind_

_You were always on my mind_

_I love you, my girl. I will love you forever._

_Jon_

She closes her laptop and sobs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So, no word then?” his friend Sam asks through heavy breaths, which is funny, because they’re just walking a local trail, but Sam’s trying to make changes too, and Jon realizes that everyone has to start at the beginning.

“No,” he shakes his head. Actually, walking is a little more taxing than one might think. He’s even starting to sweat a little. He opens his aluminum water bottle and takes a drink. Ghost starts to pick up his pace but Jon pulls tight on the lead, and the hairy beast heels. He can chase butterflies or whatever later. Jon would be glad to have a steady jog, but he has to consider Sam’s limitations.

“So….how long….has it….been?” His hefty friend has to stop, and leans against a tree to catch his breath, bent over, hands on his knees. Jon really hopes he doesn’t have a heart attack. He’s a bit rusty with CPR.

“You OK?” He and Ghost join Sam at the tree, and Ghost is happy to mark it as his, and Sam just nods vigorously, between harsh exhales. “We’ll take a break, Jon says patiently. He spots a bench a couple hundred yards up the trail. He checks his fitness band and is pleasantly surprised that they’ve already gone over a mile. They stroll to the bench and take a seat, and Sam immediately consumes a litre of water, emptying the last little bit on his face.

“So,” Sam urges, after his heart rate has slowed enough, and he can speak without gasping for air.

“It’s been over a month.”

He can see Sam searching for the bright side of things, or at least an explanation other than the most likely one. “Well, what you wrote was a lot to take in. Maybe she’s just afraid she’ll make things worse for you, or she won’t be able to help you.”

It makes sense, he supposes, but Daenerys could never make things worse for him. He just understands now that he can’t rely on her to make them better. Only he can do that.

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “But the next move is up to her. I don’t want to push her.” Ghost starts to get restless, so it’s time to get moving once more. “You ready to head back?”

“Can you throw me on a sledge and drag me?”

Jon laughs. “This trail circles. It’s not much longer. You’re doing great, let’s go.”

******

An hour later, he drops Sam at his town house, and stops to say hi to his wife and let the kids play fetch with Ghost for a bit, then heads back to his place at Wolfswood Commons. He likes this place. It’s a subdivision, about thirty miles southeast of Winterfell, but it was built with the idea that it would blend in to the natural scenery, rather than destroying it, so the streets are tree-lined and there is greenery everywhere, and the exteriors of the homes are wood or stone or a combination of both, no vinyl siding or brick veneer in sight. He found a flat in the newest expansion, which abuts the lakeshore. It’s idyllic and tranquil and far enough from his family, it’s a great community for Ghost. He could have stayed in the flat in Winterfell, but he’d shared it with Ygritte, and it’s best to put that part of his life to bed for good.

As he drives along the Kingsroad, and the line of shopping plazas and restaurants and office buildings gives way to rolling hills smattered with parks and golf courses and farm houses, he considers Sam’s theory of why he hasn’t heard from Daenerys. There was no indication his message hadn’t been delivered, but also no indication she’d even read it. Maybe he erred by sending it to her work address, but it was the only one he knew. Maybe he should have just picked up the phone and called, but he was afraid he’d lose his nerve. He’s still not comfortable with the common knowledge that he’s been in treatment. He knows it’s not a sign of failure; in fact, it’s the opposite, but it would be naive to think that everyone sees it that way. Even his father seemed more disappointed that it had come to that, rather than proud of his son for recognizing what he needed to do. And Cat was scandalized, of course, worried about the Stark reputation. But Dany isn’t like his family. It’s what he likes most about her.

Maybe he should just bite the bullet and call. Or maybe he should speak to his therapist first. Or maybe he should forget about it all, because that night at the wedding notwithstanding, he burned his bridges with her long ago. And she has his number the same as he has hers. He knows one of his fatal flaws is his stubbornness and pride, and he still can’t help but feel resentment seep in that she just didn’t bother to respond at all. That he’d poured out his heart, and it didn’t even warrant a thanks, but no thanks. It’s not like he’d begged her to be with him in that email. He just told her the truth, and that he loved her, and apologized for his mistakes. What more can he do now?

Ghost stirs in the backseat and starts to whine as Jon slows the car to turn into the entrance of Wolfswood Commons and sticks his snout between the two front seats, over Jon’s shoulder. He scratches his dog affectionately. “Almost home, pal, then we’ll get you a treat.” Ghost licks his face, leaving a nice patch of drool on his shoulder. 

A few minutes later, he pulls into his parking spot, and scowls when he sees someone is parked in the spot beside his, the one reserved for his guests, if he ever has them. Probably his asshole neighbor’s company, as he doesn’t remember seeing this one before, just a white rental sedan. Great. Probably a prolonged stay. They’d just better watch their doors. He climbs out of the car and opens the back door for Ghost, who runs toward the building like he’s been shot from a cannon.

“Wait up, you big oaf!” Jon hollers at the white blur, then he hears Ghost barking up a storm, and it makes him nervous. It isn’t an angry bark as far as he can tell. “What is it, Ghost?” he calls out as he heads toward his flat.

When he rounds the corner, his heart stops.

Sitting on the patio chair outside his door, holding a bouquet of flowers and petting his dog, is Daenerys. She’s wearing a camel-colored trench jacket, unbuttoned, a simple white sweater dress, and dark red knee-high boots that look like they cost more than his mortgage for the month. She looks amazing, fresh faced and wide-eyed. And uncertain as she slowly stands and smiles at him. Ghost halts licking her hand, but continues to sniff her and poke his snout under the hem of her coat, obviously not understanding that all her attention isn’t meant for him.

“Dany…”

“Hi,” she says breathily, still smiling. “I brought you these….” She hands him the bouquet, which is wrapped in cellophane paper. “I read your email. Read it a hundred times, in fact. I’m sorry I didn’t call, or….”

He has to will his heart to keep beating. “I just moved,” he tells her. “How….how did you find me?”

“Well, it was a grueling odyssey of….” she stops, then she closes the space between them. “Fuck it.” And she throws her arms around him and presses her lips to his.

And he knows her choice is made.

THE END

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! HMU in comments for Easter eggs you found.
> 
> Relationship timelines:  
> -Jon meets Ygritte some time in high school, they break up some time before he goes to college.  
> -Jon and Dany meet year 1 of college, have an on/off relationship that ends for good the summer before their senior year. Jon leaves school.  
> -Jon reconnects with Ygritte a few weeks before Dany leaves him for good, but they don’t actually get back together until some months after Dany leaves. So there was no literal cheating, unless you consider texting an ex (exting? Is that what it’s called?) to be cheating.  
> -Jon and Ygritte are together for about 7 years, Ygritte dumps him about 6 months prior to the story
> 
> Also, storytelling wise, this one switches POV’s and sometimes during the shift it picks up right where the previous left off but sometimes it backtracks and tells the same events from the other person’s POV.
> 
> -I would not consider Jon and Dany completely reliable narrators.
> 
> RE: The Starks. I dislike more of them than I like. But this isn’t some revenge fic for that. I just thought it would be fun, and a different take, to portray them as the tacky billionaire, nouveau-riche white trash type. If you grew up in the rural or Southern US then you can probably recognize some of the references. But I thought the Starks and northerners were depicted as intolerant, ignorant hillbillies by the end of the show so if you’re gonna go with that stereotype (like, thinking yourself extra special for hailing from a certain geographical area and never shutting up about that), go all out. So if you can try to imagine the Starks as new money rich white Southerners in the US, if you have any experience with that. Like the Duck Dynasty family with a much bitchier matriarch.
> 
> Re: Dorne: Think of it as the Nevada (particularly Vegas) of Westeros. I think that’s what the TV show sorta tried to do anyway.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
